


Private Protection

by BxsicTrxsh



Category: Glee
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Bodyguard, M/M, asshole smythe, basically an episode of Castle, hotel room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 02:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7557406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BxsicTrxsh/pseuds/BxsicTrxsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being employed at a private security service is weird, to say the least. Add the asshole son of a billionaire and a luxury hotel suite and... who knows what could happen.<br/>Lets just hope nothing goes wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Protection

**Author's Note:**

> If you've seen the Castle episode 'The Squab and the Quail' then you'll recognize basically all of this plot. Literally, the whole thing is basically plagiarism. Lets just pray I don't get sued.  
> If you haven't seen the episode, you should go watch it, and if you've never heard of Castle then you should climb out form under that rock and go watch the whole show. Trust me, its worth it. All 8 seasons. Caskett is bae. And Rysposito, because I'm trash.   
> (Also... center of the universe is on hiatus soz mates, also i may be going on hols so I wont be posting for a while, but I'll have loads of fics after I come back woooo!)

 

Seb is 17, Kurt is 23.

 

When I got the call that morning, it was just another job. A client needed personal security for the evening, and as usual I wasn’t allowed to ask why. Working for a private security company can be pretty strange; you’re asked to put the life of a complete stranger before your own, but you never have the slightest clue why.

The people I protect could be anything from a wealthy politician avoiding assassination to an overly-paranoid loser, but it’s not like I care when I can get paid up to a thousand dollars depending on the customer. And as much as I would love to say that it’s not about the money… it’s _definitely_ about the money.

Tonight’s client happens to be Sebastian Smythe; only son of the millionaire venture capitalist Stephan Smythe. He’s never had to worry about anything- his family is from ‘old money’, he has one of the world’s most successful businesses sitting on his shoulders, and he’s widely regarded as attractive (‘sex-on-a-stick’, I recall being used to describe him by many celebrity gossipers… not that I would care or anything.)

Except from the fact that it’s _Sebastian Smythe holy shit,_ it’s just a normal case. Someone powerful is mad at his father because of money or pride, and the 17 year old son is the most obvious target… so his family have paid for him to be put under protection. And that protection happens to be me.

Just like I normally would, I meet the client outside of the airport and follow him to the safe house in an unmarked black company sedan. Unsurprisingly, it’s less ‘safe-house’ and more ‘luxury suite in one of New York’s most high-class hotels’, because even hiding from potential kidnapping or murder- Sebastian Smythe pays obscene amounts of money to be ‘comfortable’.

I wasn’t lying when I said I only did this job for the money- I can barely stand these rich mummies-boy types, I don’t protect their lives for fun.

Leaving his driver/butler/whatever-the-fuck-else to pay for the room, I quickly usher him onto the elevator with a hand on his back- firmly keeping him a step ahead of me, and shooting a calculating gaze around the lobby for anything suspicious.

Rather than greeting me like a normal person would, as soon as we step onto the elevator Sebastian bursts into high-pitched laughter. Wordlessly, I just cross my arms and raise an eyebrow in challenge.

“Sorry, wow,” he gasps, still getting his breath back after his laughing fit, and I can already tell I'm gonna hate this smirky bastard by the time this night is over with.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, checking the hallway is empty before letting him walk out of the elevator.

“I just didn’t expect you to be so… short. I mean, when they told me I was going to be under ‘private security’ I’d expected some tall, old guy with loads of muscles or whatever, you know like a real bodyguard.” He explains, and I just narrow my gaze icily, shutting the door behind us a _tiny_ bit harder than necessary… just a tiny bit.

“I may not be a ‘real bodyguard’ or whatever, but I can assure you that I am capable of keeping you out of danger.” I explain, biting my tongue almost painfully to resist spitting back every sharp retort that comes to mind.

“Oh, of course you can. My Dad isn’t an idiot, and I mean, you could always distract my attacker with your flaming gay-face.” Ouch, that one was just rude.

As much as my body is screaming at me to pin him to the ground just to get him to shut his mouth, I roll my eyes and move to the other end of the room. Making a show of checking for any possible threats, I manage to get as far away from the irritating meerkat as possible.

“So, what now? Don’t get me wrong, flying across the country and being paraded across town like some spy movie is very exciting, but what happens now?” He asks, sprawling across the couch with the grace of a spoiled cat.

“Now? You get to sit still and shut up, oh- and try not to get yourself killed.” Usually the straightforward explanation is enough to shut up even the snidest customers, but apparently not this time.

“As riveting as that sounds, I have a better idea…” He drawls suggestively, and this time I decide to humour him.

“Oh yeah, what would that be?” I watch him quizzically as he shifts from his position and leans forward, considering me for a moment with a steady glance. Eventually he hums to himself, leaning back against the couch with a mischievous glint in his eye.

_God, if it wouldn’t get me fired I’d slap that smirk right off his face._

“You know, when I said I’d expected some buff guy to be protecting me, I wasn’t telling the whole truth. The _first_ thing I thought when they told me I was getting a bodyguard was that my parents had gone and bought me an escort. Which means you weren’t actually _that_ far off my expectations.”

I almost spit my water out when he says that, and instead stand there coughing like an idiot, cheeks burning bright red. By the time I’ve cleared my throat again, I’ve barely even come up with a suitable response to that. _What the hell was that? He can’t actually be serious; he’s like six years younger than me!_

“What’s that supposed to mean? You think I look like a _prostitute?”_ I sound a lot more incredulous than I’d intended, but at least my response wasn’t completely lame.

“Escort, not prostitute- And yes… You’d be a damn good one too; with that ass, I’d pay a _lot_ to have you to myself for a night.” His smug look on his face switches to purely devilish, and for some reason it’s making me feel uncomfortable.

“Good thing I'm being paid a lot to be here, you know, just to make sure you don’t get hurt.” I retort, and he visibly deflates, retreating back to his earlier position on the couch- slightly tenser than before.

Apparently the guy can’t even be brought off his pedestal for more than ten seconds, as he quickly latches on to something else to irritate me about, “Oh yeah, because a guy who weighs probably half as much as I do is gonna be _so_ useful if I get attacked.”

 _Does he get off on annoying the hell out of people or something?_ “Don’t underestimate me. Just because I'm not made of 80% muscle doesn’t mean I'm not capable of breaking your leg if I wanted to.” Maybe that sounds like a threat, but at this point I can’t even bring myself to care.

Instead of the freaked out or offended reaction I expected, he just smirks again. Is he back to the crude jokes already? What did I say that he’s managed to take out of context _now_?

“That’s pretty hot.”

Oh, well I definitely didn’t expect _that._

Shaking my head dismissively, I take a seat on one of the smaller couches in the suite, willing the blush creeping up the tips of my ears to go away. I do _not_ need this smug full-off-himself entitled bastard distracting me from my job, if he wants to get my attention he’ll have to do a lot worse than a few suggestive comments and flirty smiles.

Suddenly a knock on the door interrupts my internal rant, and I immediately jump to my feet, darting to the door and reaching to wrap my fingers around the Glock 17 on my belt. Silently cursing the hotel for not having peep-holes on their doors, I crack it open and glance outside, sighing loudly when I see what is there waiting.

Opening the door wider, I step out and check the hallway behind the food cart, holding a hand up to get the hotel employee to wait a moment. Didn’t I ask that driver to tell the hotel ‘no room service’?

“Hi, we didn’t order this.” I explain, still standing in the way of the door, momentarily forgetting that Sebastian is sat on the couch behind me and can hear everything I'm saying, and I jump slightly at the sound of his voice.

“Speak for yourself, Hummel. Bring it in!” He calls, and I have to push my foot against the bottom of the cart to stop it again, turning around to half-glare at the younger boy.

“We can’t have room service, it’s a security threat.”

“I don’t think there’s an army of killer mice hiding in the spaghetti, and I'm hungry.” Sebastian retorts, sounding like a stroppy five year old.

“There may not be mice, but there could be poison.” I turn back to the lost-looking employee with an apologetic smile, “Sorry, but we can’t eat that, and just charge it to the room.”

As expected, Sebastian doesn’t even try to object to paying for the food, but instead he does run over to the door and stop the cart one last time, grabbing the bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“It’s sealed.” He states, waving the staff member dismissively and stalking past me back into the room to place the glasses on the table.

With an unamused frown, I shut the door and lock it again, turning back to Sebastian and staring at the bottle of alcohol in his hand accusingly. “You're four years too young for that, Sebastian.”

Rolling his eyes, he sets to work locating the corkscrew in one of the kitchenette drawers. “Actually, I'm French, and over there we can drink wine at sixteen, so I’m over a year old enough.”

Matching his frustration, I snatch the bottle off him and open it with ease, who’d have guessed that I’d be protecting Sebastian Smythe from blinding himself with his own incompetence?

“Well, we’re in America, and you’re supposed to be 21. And honestly, if you can’t even open the bottle then you probably shouldn’t be drinking what’s inside.” I retort, throwing the cork in the bin and half-filling both glasses.

“Is that why you’re letting me drink it?” He comments, taking a glass of the dark red alcohol and moving to sit on the couch.

“You _shouldn’t_ be drinking, and neither should I… but I won’t tell if you don’t.” What can I say, I'm not gonna get in the way of someone like Sebastian Smythe. Who knows, maybe a bit of alcohol in his system will get him to stop hitting on me…

“You're sexy when you’re secretive.” _Never mind._

***

We’ve been stuck in this hotel room for nearly three hours now, and I can honestly say they’ve been the strangest three hours of my life. One moment Sebastian is blatantly trying to get in my pants- and the next he’s insulting me and telling me all about how small and weak I am.

Something tells me he didn’t get the memo that I'm a _lot_ older than him… and I'm supposed to be keeping him safe- which is very difficult when I'm spending half of my time resisting his childish advances.

Maybe it’s the fact that we’ve both a _little_ bit more than just half a glass of wine, or maybe he’s genuinely growing on me, but at one point in the evening I find myself laughing at him- not uncomfortable or in disbelief- he genuinely made me laugh; which is pretty impossible when it comes to someone like me.

Of course he’s still shamelessly flirting with me, but rather than it being weird, uncomfortable and kinda cocky, it’s actually quite funny… In an equally weird ‘ _you-are-way-too-young-for-me’_ , and _‘this-is-_ unprofessional’ way.

“So,” he begins, sipping his wine and dropping the glass carefully back on the table, “How exactly _do_ you plan on protecting me, if it comes to that.”

He looks genuinely curious now, not just teasing, as he tangles our feet together between us on the plush couch cushion. I smile and break the tentative eye contact between us- bashful for some reason.

“ _If it comes to that_ I happen to have very fast instincts, and I can aim a gun quite well.” I explain shyly, ducking my head away from his unreadable expression.

He’s quite for a moment, calculating his response, “Sexy.”

I snort at his comment, and slowly let my own gaze drift up to actually- _properly –_ look at Sebastian for the first time. He looks shy, almost afraid- but not afraid of me. He actually looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders right now, and I know from experience that’s never a nice feeling- not when you’re just seventeen years old.

“You’re not really like this all the time, are you…” I'm not asking a question now, and from the defeated slump of his posture, I almost feel bad for my earlier frustration and distaste for his attitude.

 _Of course_ he’s not being a smug, self-centred asshole, he’s _scared._ He knows he’s in danger, and while I’ve been using that to retaliate to his barbs, he’s been using the flirting and the teasing to _hide_ from that danger, to distract himself.

God I'm an asshole.

“Mom and Dad are trying to act like people from rival businesses are just jealous, but I know it’s worse than that.”

I’d been expecting I'm to finally take his chance to punish me for making him feel bad, but instead he’s opening up to me, telling me about what’s happening. I shouldn’t be letting him, really. I’m not supposed to know about the situation, it’s not part of my job, but for some reason I can’t bear to interrupt him when he’s speaking in such a nervous, broken voice.

“Whatever is going on, it’s not about the business at all. There was a _gun,_ Kurt.” I gasp, and I don’t even know if it’s the mention of a gun or the fact that he knew my name that’s more surprising.

Sure, I knew the boy was in danger, but close protection is only called in as a precaution, so the rich families can scare away whoever is causing trouble. Usually the trouble only got as serious as robbery or low-level assault- you know, a few bruises to send a message.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a _gun_ being involved in anything like this… Most of the time, if the situation were that serious they’d go to the police. The fact that they _haven’t_ gone to the police tells me that this situation is _very_ bad.

I know I should say something, it’s too silent. I need to reassure him, or distract him somehow, “Don’t worry, Smythe. I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you, you’re paying me remember.”

Grinning slightly, He sits up, grabs his glass and drains the last few sips of wine all at once, standing up with a playful grin. I guess reassurance and distraction is the same thing with Sebastian Smythe.

“Come on then, Hummel; if you’re so tough and badass, prove it.” He challenges with a tipsy grin, and I just blink at him, confused.

“What do you mean, ‘prove it’?”

“Show me, tackle me or something, I don’t know.” A shiver runs up my spine for some reason when he tells me to ‘show him.’ Maybe he was onto something when he said it was sexy.

“You know a couple hours ago I would have been completely on board with that plan.” I admit, giggling.

“Have I managed to finally win you over?” He sounds light and bubbly again, like before, and I can’t help but smile back.

“Not quite, but I'm not gonna tackle you to the ground, we wouldn’t want you to get hurt, would we?” I retort, stepping towards him and smiling.

I have no idea what I'm doing, I shouldn’t be standing this close to him, and I definitely shouldn’t be smiling and giggling with him. The wine was a terrible idea, how could I be so stupid?

Apparently Sebastian isn’t thinking along the same lines as me, as he just steps even closer to me, his warm hands find my waist easily, and I grab the tops of his arms, half trying to maintain control, and half just looking for a way to be close to him.

It’s just the two of us, it’s night time in New York City, and we’re in the luxury suite of the nicest hotel I’ve ever been to. This close, he really is a lot taller than me, and those _eyes,_ I’ve never seen such piercing green irises.

Absently, I notice the window next to us; I can see the sparkling lights of the city below- distant like stars. I barely have time to think about it for long though, as those eyes stare back at me, a longing gaze breaking through the glassy film from the wine.

He leans closer, slowly- agonisingly slow. An insane part of me wants to scream at him to just hurry up, move closer. The rational, professional part of me is freaking out- this is a terrible idea, he’s six years younger than me, and he’s _paying_ me to be here.

It’s funny how, in the heat of the moment that rational part of my mind is easy to ignore, and instead I choose to focus of how warm he feels, how beautiful his eyes are.

And suddenly we’re kissing, and it’s _insane._ Literally, we’re both insane if we think this is in any way appropriate, but it’s also insane how _good_ it feels, how _right._ It’s perfect…

Until it isn’t.

All at once, I remember the window. _We’re stood right next to a huge window at night in the middle of New York City, and we’re kissing._

Gasping, I push him away, but it’s too late. I can hear it almost perfectly, the click of a trigger, the deafening crash of shattered glass, the whoosh of air as the first bullet flies past.

My instincts kick in immediately; I dive towards Sebastian and knock him to the ground. If I weren’t busy saving his life right now I’d make a quip about how in the end I _did_ show him how well I can tackle people.

From what I can tell (and hope and pray), the first bullet missed us, and as for the other three shots that I hear, I'm not sure exactly where they ended up.

It’s not until I her Sebastian scream that I look down and she the pool of blood on the pristine white carpet. Then I feel it, the sharp pain that feels like a hot poker stabbing me a million time at once in the same place.

_I’ve been shot._

My last thought is only half sarcastic before everything goes silent and the world turns black…

_This carpet is ruined._


End file.
